


Writing

by orphan_account



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen, We gonna learn 2 rite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:04:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor can't write and Haytham decides his son is going to learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writing

His gaze lingered over the hair of his father, who was curled over his large desk and working rather diligently on a paper for a foreign contributor. The older man did not fear writing the letter in the presence of his son. He had been around Connor enough to know he lacked the ability of understanding idiomatic English, let alone French. Even with the unpleasant and drunk French recruit he only knew a few choice words that would make any Frenchman's cheeks shoot red. Not that he ever knew what he was proclaiming.

He was currently absorbed in trying to remember as many of the strange words as he could in an attempt to recite them to Stephane later for translation.

"Allow me to save you the trouble of butchering this fine language in that filthy tavern later this week. I am merely explaining the situation in these colonies in relation to the general unrest of the colonists and the state of the Brotherhood." Haytham hadn't even looked up from the parchment as his quill gently scratched over the surface and every letter looked pristine. 

Connor frowned, thin lips pressing together as his brows knit briefly before he dispelled the reaction. "And exactly what are you saying about me?" The Templar finished his sentence, lightly blowing on the ink before he set his quill aside. "Must you assume it is about you specifically? Vanity is not becoming of you my son."

"But I am the Brotherhood. There is no one else you can be talking about." The room had no other chairs than the one Haytham was in so Connor settled for walking over and leaning his back against the wall alongside the desk. Connor's hair was down and the one strip of hair that hadn't been cut hung over the right side of his face and curled towards his eye.

Haytham relented, as much as he could with his stiff upper lip and selective ignorance, and folded his hands on the desk. "If you must know, I am noting that they have had some success. Though I have the only active member of the organization detained in my villa. Which is fortunate, but temporary."

"They? Would admitting I have had success kill you, dear father?" The end was mocked, Connor looking away from his father and out the opposing window where a wolf stalked the snowy landscape. "Perhaps in the mind of a boy who has fooled himself into thinking I put that much thought into eroding his self worth. A truly impossible task, for his ego has been inflated past help by luck and those dreaded men at the Convention."

And with that Connor gave up on that line of questioning. Haytham seemingly content to get back to his report as he lifted the quill again and set upon adding more words to paper. Though Connor did not leave, and his father to absorbed in his work to question his son's lingering. Quite uncharacteristic for someone as impulsive as him. And the Templar is not surprised when after a pause he is badgered again.

"Where did you learn to write like that? It looks nicer than Stephane's or Achilles' writing does." A bit of an odd subject, and something Connor should know the answer to. "It is called cursive, and the Brotherhood taught me. Did they neglect to teach you properly? If at all?"

For an unknown reason the comment felt like a strike at his late mentor and Connor bristled at that. His arms crossing to prevent his hands from fisting and provoking more jabs. "I was already years behind in my training. We only went over a fraction of what assassin's normally do, at least that is what Achilles told me. He said I wouldn't need it, and he's been right."

Haytham's eyes blink shut and remain so as he sighed softly and stared at the quill with a sort of gentle aggravation. "No son of mine will have a second rate education. You learn now. Get a chair from down the hall and bring it in here. By the end of the night you will master the alphabet."

"I don't care to--"  
"This was not a request."  
"And my refusal was not a joke."

The older man glared up at his son, the two engaging in a wordless battle of wills until they both realized that if this were to go on there would be here until Spring. Haytham decided to take a different approach.

"Imagine this, you are on one of your missions and you are trying to sabotage a well planned ambush of one of your caravans and you know this man has sent out its route already. You have killed the man and you are now in his study. You decide to send a fake letter to the men on the ambush in order to direct them away from your caravan. You find his wax and seal and, alas, find you are unable to forge a letter from him. Not because of any lack of skill impersonating his script but because you can't figure out how to 'write like that'." Haytham waves his hand in the air lightly, as if it added a sort of certainty to his example.

"That sounds troublesome, doesn't it? So go get that chair, boy, and be thankful I am feeling charitable tonight." Connor would have objected but Haytham went back to ignoring him mostly so he just walked (“Stop stomping Connor, you're not a child.”) from the study and into the dining room long enough to drag a chair in and sit in it improperly just to annoy Haytham. If it did, it was sometimes hard to tell his father's annoyance when the old man didn't want it known.

“Can you use a quill Connor? No—it's not as easy as I make it look.” Connor was handed the quill and a fresh sheet of parchment as Haytham settled into teaching his son the simple art of writing.

One that proved more arduous than anything else.

“You're dripping to much ink now it will smear all over your writing as soon as your land lays down.”

“Connor why are you hesitating, your hand must flow through the letter.”

“When I said flow I mean the quill onto the paper not the ink onto my shoe.”

“No, there is no easier way to make an 'f', are you daft? Just write the letter already.”

“I can't believe the man who toppled my Order is incapable of taking command of a vial of ink. Tell me, did I spare an imposter by mistake?”

“I revoke my earlier statement, sparing the actual Connor seems to have been a mistake by the way he is spilling ink all over himself and my possessions.”

Connor was flooded by a slew of 'guiding mentoring' and within the hour he had been insulted so thoroughly he slammed the quill down on the desk, wetting the light plumage with some spilled ink, cheeks heating when he looked down and saw just how much ink was on his sleeve and fingers and not on the paper.

“Was this really for my own good father or was it just so you could mock me?” His outburst was only met with an amused man and a damned quirked brow. Connor very much wanted to reach for his hatchet and just slice it off.

“I do not know what you mean. I am merely trying out this 'bonding' business I have heard fathers speak of. I find it is tiring and leaves me with a residual feeling of disappointment.”

“I do not know why I should be judged for not learning the written form of English. Many of the people who speak the language don't know it. Why should a Native care for it?” Connor laid his chin on the back of the chair and stared darkly at his father through his hair, who only rolled his eyes.

“Do you think I would let you getting away with staining my favorite coat if I did not actually care for your betterment? Literacy is a sign of status and education and will reflect well upon you. Even more so as you are not obviously European. You seem to get so angry when people insult you as a mindless brute. So instead of doing your usual act of tossing a table at them to prove them 'wrong' try something...softer. Allow yourself to be made sophisticated.”

"And I suppose you're the one to teach me? The all mighty paleface will show this pitiful beast of a man how to blend in with high society?" Haytham nearly threw his hands up at this, fed up with his son's dramatics and oversimplifications. 

"I explained before, I want my son to be educated. Is that such a terrible thing to want for? Would you rather I ignore you and allow you to tend to your own matters? I said I was going to teach you to write and I will not let your pigheadedness get in the way of this. We are returning to our lesson now. Let me show you again how to properly link letters. Let's try it with your name..."

******

"So if I sign my name I can do that looping under it to make it look nice? That's kinda pointless."

"It's a flourish, much like the ornate walls of a church or the clothes of a noble. It serves little purpose other than to set yourself apart. It is optional, though I encourage you find one you like and apply it." Connor had made much progress, it had been a bit hard to reign in the boy but his potential was undeniable and before Haytham was a...legible scrawl. It had little else going for it but compared to where Connor was before he considered it a small victory. Of course there would be other lessons, but for now he allowed Connor to smile at his work.

"It is early, when did it become morning?" The lad raised his head from the paper and stared out the window with his father. "Not sure. We should turn in though. I will see you tomorrow father."

As the young man left the room Haytham looked over the paper left behind and his stained desk and sleeves. He gave a single chuckle before lifting the paper and placing it in one of his drawers, his sentimentality would be the death of him.


End file.
